It is is spring and there is so much to do that I had to miss a blog yesterday - but there are so many ideas to wrap up now as well. How does the Matrix play into Christianity, uniting it with Zen? Is Jesus divine? What basics unite all the major religions? What are the odds of California Chrome winning the Triple Crown? (if I knew the real answer to that, I 'd probably be somewhere else).
Ideas, ideas - Plato thought that they were the realest of the real, and "reality" only a shadow of the perfect idea, that of God. We may credit him as being one the first of the Ivory Tower elites, who can tell you the meaning of wood, but couldn't split a log or start a fire to save his life. There are lots of dreams that are "out there," with no apparent connection to reality, but I had one - a waking one - on my ride back from the walk with the dog this morning, that was both out there and connected. As is often the case with such sorts, it had to do with death.
My wife hates when I mention such things as, "this will probably be our last dog before we die," or "one more car, and that's it for us. Either the grave or the nursing home from then on." It is a grim reminder for most people, but often not for me. Rather, it puts things into perspective, and the perspective brings beauty, even as it reminds us of pain and ugliness (see in Essays, "Mt. Osceola"). The ride back from the walking trail takes me along a rural highway that is plush with trees and fields of grass and, this time of year, dirt where the crops will grow this summer. The grass in now green and the trees full of the tiny pin-point flowers and buds that the Japanese artists are so fond of, because they are beautiful. Such small and delicate things are arranged in perfection, beyond what any group of humans could do. And yet it is the same road that I always take, and there are seldom any surprises. I often barely notice the sights, just as I often barely notice just about everything. But a pang of death came to me on the ride back - not a premonition of something immediate and ominous, but of something inevitable and not too far off. Looking at actuarial tables, I will be lucky to live another 20 years. That's one third of the life that I have already lived. At one thought, it seems like a long time, but at another, not long at all. I can remember when my son was born 19 years ago, and that at times seems long ago but at others, not. More in perspective, Monica Lewinsky is now in the news again, and I can remember that as if it were a few years ago. But no - the affair began 20 years ago, about my estimated time left on this world. 20 years, even to me, can seem a very little time. In terms of human history, it is nearly nothing. In terms of geological time, it is immeasurably small.
There are realizations and there are realizations. As an idea, 20 years left is not a monumental thought. But as a felt-thing - as a reminder of how little time is left for me, and how little time we all have, it does amazing things. The trees become more beautiful. The barn becomes a vestige from times past, a nostalgic poster from Currier and Ives. The drive up to the house becomes a recall of everything that has happened in our 15 years here, and the house itself a precious, homey mess. All in nostalgia, all as if already gone. Yet this is not a dream, not a disembodied idea like Plato's Ideal. It is all too real. Every second we leave behind what we had, and in no time we find ourselves at the end, the end no different in lived terms - in awareness of being - than the beginning or the middle. We are, in a way, already there. We never possessed the present, either, but have always looked back on what was and on what was done, our present so quickly a fading past. And when we try to grasp the present, we find this fading image which is really our perceived present - this fading image which makes us know how short our time really is - and we come to realize that it is the most beautiful and precious thing in the world to us. A gift without price, for scarcity and demand sets the price, and the present is always in demand, but always leaving, always just gone, as scarce as 'nothing' can be.
When we see it as it is, this water through our hands, we want to shore it up but cannot. We can only love it with longing and realize, just in that time, what a precious gift we have in life. Just for that rare moment; and then we look at the lawn again, what had amazed and delighted us before, and groan - time to mow it again?
Today I give a fuzzy bunny hug to life, and quickly, before it disappears in the activity of life, which oddly robs life of so much of its richness. And then we will mow the lawn and attack such issues as "Was Jesus God?" Although such concepts are hugely important for millions, sometimes it does seem that living thoroughly and with heartfelt appreciation is enough. If we could only do if forever, or even for an hour each day. FK
Ideas, ideas - Plato thought that they were the realest of the real, and "reality" only a shadow of the perfect idea, that of God. We may credit him as being one the first of the Ivory Tower elites, who can tell you the meaning of wood, but couldn't split a log or start a fire to save his life. There are lots of dreams that are "out there," with no apparent connection to reality, but I had one - a waking one - on my ride back from the walk with the dog this morning, that was both out there and connected. As is often the case with such sorts, it had to do with death.
My wife hates when I mention such things as, "this will probably be our last dog before we die," or "one more car, and that's it for us. Either the grave or the nursing home from then on." It is a grim reminder for most people, but often not for me. Rather, it puts things into perspective, and the perspective brings beauty, even as it reminds us of pain and ugliness (see in Essays, "Mt. Osceola"). The ride back from the walking trail takes me along a rural highway that is plush with trees and fields of grass and, this time of year, dirt where the crops will grow this summer. The grass in now green and the trees full of the tiny pin-point flowers and buds that the Japanese artists are so fond of, because they are beautiful. Such small and delicate things are arranged in perfection, beyond what any group of humans could do. And yet it is the same road that I always take, and there are seldom any surprises. I often barely notice the sights, just as I often barely notice just about everything. But a pang of death came to me on the ride back - not a premonition of something immediate and ominous, but of something inevitable and not too far off. Looking at actuarial tables, I will be lucky to live another 20 years. That's one third of the life that I have already lived. At one thought, it seems like a long time, but at another, not long at all. I can remember when my son was born 19 years ago, and that at times seems long ago but at others, not. More in perspective, Monica Lewinsky is now in the news again, and I can remember that as if it were a few years ago. But no - the affair began 20 years ago, about my estimated time left on this world. 20 years, even to me, can seem a very little time. In terms of human history, it is nearly nothing. In terms of geological time, it is immeasurably small.
There are realizations and there are realizations. As an idea, 20 years left is not a monumental thought. But as a felt-thing - as a reminder of how little time is left for me, and how little time we all have, it does amazing things. The trees become more beautiful. The barn becomes a vestige from times past, a nostalgic poster from Currier and Ives. The drive up to the house becomes a recall of everything that has happened in our 15 years here, and the house itself a precious, homey mess. All in nostalgia, all as if already gone. Yet this is not a dream, not a disembodied idea like Plato's Ideal. It is all too real. Every second we leave behind what we had, and in no time we find ourselves at the end, the end no different in lived terms - in awareness of being - than the beginning or the middle. We are, in a way, already there. We never possessed the present, either, but have always looked back on what was and on what was done, our present so quickly a fading past. And when we try to grasp the present, we find this fading image which is really our perceived present - this fading image which makes us know how short our time really is - and we come to realize that it is the most beautiful and precious thing in the world to us. A gift without price, for scarcity and demand sets the price, and the present is always in demand, but always leaving, always just gone, as scarce as 'nothing' can be.
When we see it as it is, this water through our hands, we want to shore it up but cannot. We can only love it with longing and realize, just in that time, what a precious gift we have in life. Just for that rare moment; and then we look at the lawn again, what had amazed and delighted us before, and groan - time to mow it again?
Today I give a fuzzy bunny hug to life, and quickly, before it disappears in the activity of life, which oddly robs life of so much of its richness. And then we will mow the lawn and attack such issues as "Was Jesus God?" Although such concepts are hugely important for millions, sometimes it does seem that living thoroughly and with heartfelt appreciation is enough. If we could only do if forever, or even for an hour each day. FK
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